


chelsea hotel no. 1

by scumfuck



Category: Bob Dylan (Musician), George Harrison - Fandom
Genre: 1960s, 1965, Bob Dylan - Freeform, Cigarettes, First Time Blow Jobs, Gay Smut, George Harrison - Freeform, M/M, NYC, New York City, Smut, The Beatles - Freeform, bob turns electric, dylarrison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 17:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18529987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scumfuck/pseuds/scumfuck
Summary: "Wish I was as good as you, man. You're down in history already, you've got to be the best out there." Bob takes a drag of his cigarette and smiles. "I mean, c'mon- up next to Chuck Berry, and uh, B.B. King."George's face feels hot. "No, nothin' like that. I don't reckon I'm half as good as Chuck Berry." He turns his head down to focus on his finger-work."Yes. You've gotta be, you got the hands for it. You see, I can't play guitar too well, I don't have those long fingers like you all have," Bob says. "Look. Your hands are huge, man- they've gotta be bigger than my face."





	chelsea hotel no. 1

**Author's Note:**

> bob takes george back to his hotel room after a recording session, 1965 
> 
> totally fictional! i lov them :~)

 

"Our stop's here, man," Bob says, and rolls down his window to flick his cigarette butt outside. It's got to be as late as twelve-thirty in the morning, yet Bob is still wearing dark sunglasses. He wore them all throughout his recording sessions, only taking them off once, and that was to read his own handwriting better. They frame his face in an odd way-- theirtips turn up his cheekbones and point them up to his temples. Naturally, they sharpen his features, but not in a masculine way. They make him look like a feline, a Sphinx or a lion maybe. Or, George laughs to himself, a bobcat.

 

George is sure he wears them out so people don't recognize him so easily. George knows what that's like. In fact, he's known what that's like since he was nineteen years old. He's learnt to accept it, though. He figures Bob must lead a much more private life than he does. He admires that attribute.

 

Neuwirth, who has been a loudmouth for the past seven hours George has seen him, speaks up as the car slows down. "You better not embarrass yourself, Bob, you've got a _Beatle_ with you!" It mocks him, and for a moment, George's hand goes to his hair involuntarily.

 

"'S a damn good thing you're not coming with, man," Bob says back, and tacks a laugh onto the end. He grabs his guitar case and unlocks the car door, hopping out of it. George follows suit.

 

The streets of New York City are blanketed with snow. As they trudge through it to get to the hotel, George feels the snow seep in through his boots and turn his toes cold and damp. He winces, and wishes he brought another pair of shoes.

 

Both find warmth from the biting cold in the lobby. The floor is made of marble, but the walls covered in canvases of abstract art. George would've gotten lost in the hotel, had Dylan not led the way.

 

They take the stairs, which wind up and down and hypnotize George each time he looks back down. They turn onto the second floor and Bob jingles his keys between his fingers.

"Don't worry about the people," he calls out to George over his shoulder. "They're all unemployed." 

George wonders why Bob lives in such a place, and wonders even more how these people aren't homeless yet. There's an eerie feeling to the hallway, how there is so much noise despite it being so late in the day.

 

Almost every door on the floor is ajar and George allows himself to peek through each of them. Artists and beatniks and poets are smoking cigarettes and painting and yelling. Not one person seems to notice him or Bob. They come to a stop at the end of the hall, and Bob pats himself down to find his key.

 

"Fuckin'..." Bob grumbles as he struggles with the lock. "Piece of shit."

 

George turns away from watching a man down the hall who is painting a nude woman on the back of his door. "Do you need help?" he asks, but Bob is already pushing his weight into the door in the hopes of making it budge out of the lock. Surprisingly, it does.

 

Bob sighs when it's open. He tugs the key out and tucks it back into his jacket pocket. Then he ushers George inside.

 

The hotel room- well, it doesn't look much like a hotel room. There are magazine cutouts and newspapers pinned to the wall in messy collages. There are plants lining the edge of a windowsill and scattered in odd corners, though George isn't sure how they'd stay alive in the dead of winter. Against a far wall across from the bed, a large full length mirror which has an ornate gold frame sits, waiting to reflect a new face. A typewriter sits on a desk with half a paper sticking out the top.

 

On the floor there's a plethora of records by an odd pick of artists. George sees everything from Dave Van Ronk to the Staples Singers. He wants to comment on the handful of Beatles albums on the shelf and the floor, but Bob seems to have different plans.

 

George turns at the metal clicks of the guitar case. Bob has it laid out on the mattress, which is plainly shoved in the corner of the room, along the wall of the large, screenless window. It's a regular electric Fender, Bob's new guitar, not nearly as special as George thinks someone like Bob Dylan would have.

 

"D'you always bring it home wit' you?" George asks, pointing to it. He has his own guitars, of course, but he leaves certain ones in the studio, especially in the middle of recording an album. Bob has gotten a lot done today, though. He's beginning to understand the striking process of the folksinger, and by watching him today, he feels as though he's gotten a small piece of it already. It's fragmented, his knowledge of Bob. He intends to piece it all together somehow.

 

Bob takes the guitar out and tosses the case onto the floor. He sits on the mattress, which is covered with a large comforter and various bohemian quilts. The whole apartment, and especially the bed, looks sort of unused, in a way. George wishes he knew why. "No. I brought it home 'cause I thought you were gonna teach me stuff," Bob says.

 

"Oh." George shifts uncomfortably on his feet, which are still cold and wet from the snow. He notices that Bob has already scattered his heeled boots around the apartment and is curled up barefoot on the mattress, his feet tucked underneath him. George decides to step out of his own, and leaves them neatly by the front door.

 

Bob is watching him from the opposite side of the room and smiling. As George is shrugging off his jacket, Bob takes off his sunglasses.

 

"C'mere," Bob says, and pats the seat next to him on the bed. "I don't have an amp or nothing with me, but I sure need your help, man. 'Specially with this new record we're fixing t' put out."

 

George pads over and sits next to him. He stretches his legs out on the hardwood floor.

 

"So, I'm thinkin' of this riff, you know, but I'm not sure how it'll sound on tape," Bob starts, as he tunes the guitar. He plucks a couple strings before playing the beginning of a song. He cuts himself short on a flat note, then stops the strings completely. "Sorry."

 

"It's fine." George smiles. "Who taught you how to play?"

 

Bob looks up at George, and George isn't sure how he could ever cover up those eyes with sunglasses. They are so strikingly saturated that George loses his breath for a split second. "Well, myself mostly," Bob says. "You know Robbie? Yeah, Robbie's been tryna teach me stuff every so often. Reckon once we go on tour and we're playin' it live, I'll prob'ly get him to teach me more."

 

He goes back to plucking at the strings. His fingernails, which are long enough to be their own guitar picks, really do it for him. The sound it makes is twangy and high pitched. It's obvious Bob is much more of an acoustic player, with the way that he fingerpicks.

 

"No, y'see, you can't hold your hand like that," George says. "'S too flat right here." On Bob's playing hand, George brushes his fingers over his wrist. He poises his fingers on the neck of the guitar meticulously. George feels his ears go red as their skin touches, and he feels Bob's eyes on him."Uh, try now."

 

Bob plays the same tune again, now clearer and less jumbled. He immediately breaks out into a grin. "Hey man, that's pretty good!" he exclaims. He keeps playing, then hands the guitar to George. "Show me somethin'."

 

George shrugs but takes it willingly. With the pad of his thumb, he plucks out a rock tune reminiscent of anything from the fifties.

 

"Didn't know the Everly Brothers were in my room," Bob laughs as he lights a cigarette. "Should we start harmonizing?"

 

George grins and keeps playing. He drawls it out when the improvisation comes to end and his smile turns sheepish.

 

"Wish I was as good as you, man. You're down in history already, you've got to be the best out there." Bob takes a drag of his cigarette and smiles. "I mean, c'mon- up next to Chuck Berry, and uh, B.B. King."

 

George's face feels hot. "No, nothin' like that. I don't reckon I'm half as good as Chuck Berry." He turns his head down to focus on his finger-work.

 

"Yes. You've gotta be, you got the hands for it. You see, I can't play guitar too well, I don't have those long fingers like you all have," Bob says. "Look. Your hands are huge, man- they've gotta be bigger than my face."

 

He grabs George's wrist and holds his hand up against his face. George's other hand goes limp and he's afraid his bones might shake. Bob's hand is still clamped around his wrist, now a softer touch. His hand isn't nearly as big as Bob's entire head, but George feels something deep in his gut that pushes him to move his hand. Instead, he holds Bob's cheek in his palm. His thumb sticks over Bob's chin, and he brushes it over his bottom lip.

 

The cigarette Bob was smoking has burnt out and the smoke is drifting between them like the seconds passing by, like the silence that drips like a leaky faucet. It's the dare in Bob's blue-gray eyes that finally pulls George forward to connect their lips. It's a chaste, short-lived kiss, yet George feels it everywhere, from the tip of his fingers to his toes.

 

He ends it as quickly as he started it, and pulls their lips apart but keeps their foreheads leaning on each other. Bob opens his eyes and fully realizes what happened. He retreats and sits back on his heels, runs his fingers over his lips, feeling them, reliving.

 "I'm sorry," George says quietly. "That was wrong of me." 

"Why do you say that?" 

George looks up and meets Bob's eyes, which are slightly narrowed but not in an icy way. He's questioning him, egging him on. "Well, it's just... I thought, er... We both have girls, and..." He trails off and stares down at the guitar, dumbfounded at his own confidence. He has no intent of turning back, too embarrassed with his own actions to even speak again.

Until he feels the guitar being pulled away from under his touch, as Bob places it carefully back in its case. George screws his eyes shut. He expects Bob to kick him out, tell him that maybe he shouldn't call him up again for another couple years until this all blows over.

 

Instead, Bob presses a kiss to the top of George's head, and all the way down his face until he reaches George's lips. They meet in a sensual kiss. Bob pushes George to lean back on the mattress, puts his weight on his elbows. Bob straddles him and places his hands on George's chest.

 

Bob is scared, yes, but he realizes quickly that it doesn't really matter. It's what feels right. He repeats this to himself as he runs his tongue over George's bottom lip. George's mouth gives in and they kiss, wet and open-mouthed. George tastes cigarettes and chewing gum, some odd juvenile mixture that he sort of adores, and wants more of. George's hands go up to Bob's curls, long fingers twisting in and out of them. They're both breathing awful heavy now. Bob pulls back and pecks George's lips and under his jaw. George's turtleneck gets in the way, and Bob sits up, growing frustrated.

 

"Too much fabric," he murmurs, and tugs at the hem of George's sweater. He pulls it off for him, doing most of the work. Bob quickly goes to kiss the pale skin underneath, which is clear and untouched. He places breathy kisses on his neck, chest, and collarbones, and feels enough energy in him to press his hips down.

 

"Oh-" George gasps at the sensation of that new feeling. His pants feel tight and uncomfortable. He's distracted by it as he watches Bob sit back on his knees.

 

"Can I..." He runs his fingers over the erection in George's dark jeans. Bob bites his lip, which is swollen and red, and suddenly puffs out a dry, raspy laugh."Oh, geez," he mumbles.

 

George throws his head back, because Bob's hand is still hovering over his erection, and it's becoming increasingly impossible not to buck up into his hand. "What?"

 

Bob shakes his head. "Never done anything like this with a guy before, that's all."

 

"We don't have to-" But Bob has already taken to unzipping George's jeans. He reaches into George's briefs and pulls out his cock. Bob holds it, feels the weight in his hand, a curiosity in his eyes that George hasn't ever really seen before, but understands. 

"Wanna..." Bob starts, then licks his lips and thinks again. "Wanna go down on you. That's okay?" he asks, his eyes wide as he looks up.

George nods feverishly. Bob tries to figure out where to start. He tries to imagine what girls do to himself. He sucks the tip into his mouth and George leans his head forward to watch, pushing back on his elbows. Distantly, perhaps in the hallway or in the streets, someone is singing. It's the only other sound other than their own breathing that fills up the room.

George hums and let's his fingers thread through Bob's curls. "So pretty," he murmurs, "It feels so good, Bob..."

Bob lets his tongue swirl as his mouth sinks lower. He can't go all the way without nearly choking, and uses his hand at the base.It takes a lot to get used to, controlling his breath and saliva. He attempts to get into a rhythm with it and bobs his head.

 

"Oh..."

 

Bob glances up and George's head is thrown back. He moans at the sight, and grinds into the bed. The hand in his hair is suddenly pushing him down. It feels intrusive at first, but Bob feels the tip of George's dick hit the back of his throat and it feels liberating, as if he accomplished something with it.

 

"Oh, Bobby, don't stop-" George begs, and Bob obliges, because the look on George's face is priceless, a work of art, a real masterpiece of ecstasy and promiscuity.

 

So he sucks and focuses all of his attention on his mouth and tongue. George yanks on his hair then, and it must have been a warning sign, but Bob doesn't catch on.

 

His mouth is salty as he pops off. He wipes the slobber off of his lips with the back of his hand and he's hard, so hard he could explode if George would just touch him.

 

But George isn't moving. He's staring at him, open-mouthed and shocked.

 

"What? Did I piss you off?" Bob asks. He snorts to himself, and kneels back, tucking his feet under his thighs, his erection still trapped in his pants.

 

"No one's ever done that before," George comments, a bit astounded.

 

"Done what?" Bob stands up and unzips his pants, undressing until he's naked. He has this unspoken air of confidence and flaunts it as he walks towards the bathroom attached to his room. George, after tugging his briefs back on, follows him.

 

"Swallowed," George answers, as if it's obvious. He watches as Bob leans over the sink, completely nude, rinsing out his mouth.

 

He spits into the sink and wipes his mouth again. He shrugs in response, then grins mischievously. "I guess I didn't want to get my sheets spoiled, George." He stares up at him and steps up on his toes to kiss him. It's slow and languid, and George lets his hands roam the expanse of Bob's back, up and down his spine.

Bob hums against his lips and whispers, "I need to-" He cuts himself off as George's hand latches onto his waist, and his thumb presses lightly into the dip between his thigh and his hip.

"What?" George asks, and suddenly, every part of him wants to return the favor, wants to make Bob feel good.

Bob opens his eyes andblinks up at him. "Bring me back to bed."

 

Bob lays down on his back on the mattress. George, still in a daze, kisses him and runs his hands down Bob's thin figure.

 

"What do you want me to do?" he asks. Bob stretches his arms above his head and closes his eyes.

 

"Anything," he says, his breath light and airy, "I want you to make me feel good."

 

George palms Bob's erection through his briefs and Bob immediately gasps. The gasp turns into a breathy moan. He lifts his hips up so that George can pull down his boxers.

 

George curls his hand around Bob's cock, steadily jerking. He starts slow, feeling it out and trying to see what Bob likes. He twists his wrist and Bob lets out a whine, then breathes, "Keep going..."

 

George kisses the bone of his hip, which juts out in a V-shape. George notices how feminine his body is then, as Bob arches his back slightly off the bed. It takes him a minute, through the lazy, post-orgasm haze he's in, to sit up.

 

"Can I try somethin' different?" he asks. He stops his hand at the base of Bob's cock.

 

Bob let's out a string of curses. "Fuck... what?"

 

George stands up and leaves Bob. "Don't touch yourself, would you?" he asks. He rummages around the apartment and finds a bottle of lotion in the bathroom.

 

When he comes back to bed, Bob is beautifully strewn among the sheets. His arms are pinned above his head and his eyes are closed, while his cock lay against his stomach.

 

"You look just like David," George says, grinning. Bob laughs and covers his face with his hands.

"Man, you can't say that!" Bob laughs again.  

George leans on his knees and pumps lotion onto his hand. Bob finally opens his eyes. He watches as George begins to jerk him off again, now at a smoother, less ragged pace.

 

"It's gonna feel tight," George whispers, and let's his finger dip beneath Bob's thighs and press at the ring of muscle.

 

"Jesus Christ..." Bob's fingers go to George's hair and he tugs George forward, kisses him. George thinks he does that to distract himself from the weird, new feeling. George presses harder there, pushes his finger inside the tight heat. Bob gasps and let's out a litany of curses, because George has found a rhythm between both his hands and it's steady and in time, not anything like a rock song, like what he's used to.

 

"God, fuck, shit-"

 

He can't help himself and bucks up into George's hand. His hands rake down George's back, his long fingernails scratching and George is sure he has goosebumps now.

 

"Is this all right?" George asks, his voice breathy against the skin of Bob's jaw.

 

Bob let's out a keen as George's hand goes faster on his cock. He's seemed to relax now, his knees are spread apart and his thighs shaking from the pleasure. "Good-- fuck-- your _hands_ , yeah-- _Good_ ," he manages to get out.

 

George laughs and his lips hover over Bob's collarbone. He kisses there, decides to suck the pale skin into his mouth. He's done it to girls before, and leaves them with a small bruise on their necks. He thinks he'd like to see Bob with one, too.

 

Suddenly, Bob's moans become high-pitched and erratic, and he bucks up into George's hands until he comes with a choked moan, his fingernails digging into George's shoulder-blades. George rubs him through his orgasm until he's spent, and slides his finger out.He runs his tongue over the bruise he left on Bob's collarbone.

 

"Holy fuck," Bob murmurs, breathing wildly. George stares down at the picture of ecstasy and arousal that Bob paints. His chest rises and falls unsteadily and his cheekbones are rosy pink. His chin is pointed towards the ceiling, his eyes shut as he comes down from the high.

George doesn't know where to wipe his hands. He waits for Bob to sit up. Bob's eyelids flutter open and he kisses him lazily, without hast. "That was good," Bob says, his voice raspy and not anything like the sounds he was just making. 

George grins back at him, and mumbles some form of gratitude. Bob stands to find a washcloth and wipes himself and George down with it. His curls are wild and messy and he stares at himself in the mirror that he has leaned against a wall. He tries to push them around, but they fall back into the same frizzy mess. George, behind him, kisses his shoulder blade and the back of his neck, eliciting a shudder down Bob's bare spine. 

 

"God, it's cold in here, man," Bob says.

 

He finds a cardigan in his closet made out of Irish wool and pulls it on over his bare chest. He steps back into his underwear and flops onto the bed. George, after pulling his own sweater back on, isn't sure where else to go, so he joins him.

 

Bob immediately latches onto his side and tosses his arm over George's side. George faces him and they stare at each other for a moment, before Bob grins. He covers his mouth while he does it, as if he doesn't want George to see his teeth. George finds it incredibly cute.

 

"What's that for?" he asks.

 

Bob shakes his head and drops his hand back down. "Nothin'. Starin' at me. No one stares at me like that unless it's a contest."

 

George smiles. "How could I not? Your eyes are marvelous."

 

"Thank you," he says, sheepishly. "Yours, too." He blinks and then rewords. "Well, I mean, I like how dark they are. It matches your whole, uh, you know. Your whole trope. The mysterious one."

 

"I'm not that mysterious."

 

Bob laughs. "Well, not to me, man," he says, "We just fuckin' slept together."

 

Yeah, George thinks, and all of it finally comes to his recognition. He stares ahead, behind Bob at the wall, where he'd written a poem in pen on the wood.

"That was your first time with a guy, right?" Bob's voice is timid and small. His eyes avoid George's. 

George nods, silent. It takes him a moment to speak up. "Yeah, reckon it was." Surely, he's heard about it and known about it for a long while, growing up in England and all... Boys were always rowdy and always going against what they were told. Even his own band mates...Well, they've always been very close with each other, close enough to be in the same room when George lost his virginity. But George has never thought anything of it, and always believed himself to be very happy with women.

"My mother says I'm romantic with everyone," George says. It evokes a short laugh and a smile from Bob, and lightens the heaviness between them. 

"Don't go," Bob says, and it's almost as if he begs it, as if he can tell what George is going to do next. "It's getting crazy out there. You don't have a winter coat with you."

George smiles at him reassuringly. He leans forward and presses a kiss to the tip of Bob's nose. "Wasn't plannin' on goin', anyways." His voice is deep and smooth and Bob closes his eyes. He presses their bodies closer together and leans his head on George's shoulder.

 

"G'night," he murmurs.

 

George lets his fingers thread through Bob's curls subconsciously. "G'night, Bobby."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
